


knives out, beaks bloody

by maeruth



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Knifeplay, M/M, student Lio & canon Lio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23257399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maeruth/pseuds/maeruth
Summary: like a vulture at a feast, lio has a go at himself.
Relationships: Lio Fotia/Lio Fotia
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	knives out, beaks bloody

So here’s the thing: he’s good at breaking things. He’d call it a talent— the two assholes he called friends actually  _ did, _ praised him for the way he broke that pretty gym teacher as they shared smokes and gas station slushies. 

It was easy to wind people up and watch them crumble down, down,  _ down.  _ Never took much on his part. People were easy to break, and he was all too eager to see them crack, hungry for the wide eyes and silent screams. 

(Easy as it was, it wasn’t always clean, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like having to wash his shirts of stains that were a little  _ too  _ red to be passed off as tomato sauce.)

Just a student with a bad habit of smoking and breaking one too many glass dolls, no one really paid attention to him. And he liked it that way. Attention, praise— none of that was never his end goal. Not with that ditsy gym teacher and not now, as he stared himself down. 

Literally, himself. Straight blonde hair, pretty,  _ pretty _ narrowed eyes, button nose and— 

Ah. That  _ mouth _ . 

(He already had a go at it, shoved himself down the other’s throat as soon as he had him tied up and snarling. Those teeth were just a  _ tad _ bit sharp, but he didn’t mind it, too absorbed in the fiery look in those pretty eyes, glaring right at him.

_ Oh, you  _ fierce _ little thing _ , he said, breathless and almost lightheaded when he brushed against the back of his throat,  _ should’ve known you would take me so well!) _

And it was just so  _ easy  _ to get him like this, even after he put up a little fight. He had a black eye and bloody nose now, but he still looked fucking  _ delicious _ , bound to a classroom chair with his  _ stupid _ chiffon shirt ripped to shreds and leather tossed away. His pants were still tight around his hips, hugging his legs so  _ nicely— _

He’d never wear something like that, but then again, he hadn’t really seen it on himself until now. 

He stared into his own eyes. Reached out to trace the curve of his cheekbone, baby faced and soft skinned, darkened by a punch from earlier. Tapped against the tip of his nose, smearing the blood leaking from his left nostril onto his lips, across his cheek. Long, long eyelashes outlined narrowed eyes, that hot stare piercing into him as if to set him on fire. 

Like looking in a goddamn mirror. 

He laughed, a sound that made the other flinch and jerk away. He grabbed his chin, forced him to keep his gaze. Easy. 

“I’m just as confused as you are, you know.” He offered. 

(Not entirely a  _ lie,  _ but not totally the  _ truth,  _ either. He was confused, of course, because who the fuck  _ wouldn’t  _ be confused by seeing someone who looked like them, talked like them, scratched and kicked and punched like them. But he wasn’t  _ bothered.  _ How could he be bothered by someone who put up such a good fight?) 

They didn’t answer, just glared and glared and glared. It made him smile even more. “Aw, come on,  _ say  _ something, I wanna see if you really have my voice. You already have everything else.”

“I’m not you,” they bit out, canines flashing for a moment in another snarl. 

Easy, easy,  _ easy _ to get him riled up. 

“You sure about that?” He tipped his head to the side, hair falling over his cheek to brush against his neck. Another toothy grin, “Should we test that theory?” 

The knife was heavy in his hand. Cleaned, sharpened, polished just the night before. He was going to give it another whirl during fourth period on that darling gym teacher, but that suddenly sounded much less entertaining.  _ This  _ would be more fun. He always wondered how good he’d look in red. 

He dragged the tip of the blade higher, rested it against a sharp collarbone. 

(The other one had started panting, a sound so similar and yet so different because  _ he, _ himself, would never pant like that, not like some animal about to be slaughtered with nowhere to go—)

“Let’s play a game,” he said, pressing deep into the skin. He licked his lips as the other squirmed and gasped. “It’s like— like 20 Questions. Except I’m asking the questions. And if your answer matches  _ mine _ ,” the knife twisted, deep deep  _ deep  _ in the dip just above the bone, his doppleganger screaming out a curse, “you get a point!”

He pulled the knife away. Pressed it against the curve of his jaw. “What’s your name?”

They didn’t speak. Too busy catching their breath or something, tears already falling down their face.

_ Alright— _

He took a seat on the other’s lap. Wrapped some hair around his fist, keeping a tight grip as the blade began to dig into the skin. Deeper, deeper, then he turned his wrist just  _ slightly _ —

“Lio, Lio,” he finally rasped out, eyes screwed shut. The tears mixed with the fresh blood beginning to leak out, he dipped down to lap at it. 

(Was  _ this  _ how he tasted? A little spice, a little salt, a whole lot of copper? Not too bad, he supposed.)

“Oh, me too!” He said, kissing the open cut. “That’s one point.”

The knife moved lower, lower, until it hovered over his chest. “Hm— your hometown. What is it?”

This time, he answered quickly. “Overseas. London.”

“Another point.” The curve of the blade dragged against his skin, from the top of his pecs to the bottom of his abdomen. Oh, the red looked  _ lovely,  _ scarlet already beginning to bead and leak from the laceration, eyes glowing with adoration. 

Easy to cut him open like this. It would be awfully easy to break him open and just see, just  _ check _ if they were the same on the inside, just a little  _ peek _ —

He restrained himself, pulled the knife away to press against his cheek, just below his right eye. “What’s your best friend’s name?”

They hesitated, eyes darting around the room before looking back at him. “G—”

_ G _ —?

“Galo.”

The knife stilled. 

(How, how,  _ how  _ did he know that idiotic gym teacher’s first name? Was there more than one, did he have his  _ own?  _ Someone like that teacher that he could use? Oh, it would be so  _ easy, _ wouldn’t it, to have them both under his thumb— no, the  _ three _ of them under the heel of his shoe, beaten and bruised and absolutely  _ decadent _ —)

“Wrong,” he said simply, lips set in a thin line. Something wet splattered onto his own face, but he was too busy listening to the other scream. His arm had been pulled back in a slash. “My point.”

Hearing that name set him on edge. He didn’t want to play anymore. He wanted to rip him open and see how much he could bleed. 

(Would they bleed the same? Jesus, how he wanted to find out.)

“Where are your parents?” The knife was set against the skin between his neck and his shoulder, eyes raking over the fresh flowing blood and hot tears. 

“Dead.” They breathed, head hanging limp against his grip on his hair. “Years ago. Before the…”

Their sentence trailed off, but it was answer enough. The blade carved into him roughly, almost like a butcher slicing into a slab of meat. “Wrong again. Mom just texted me an hour ago asking about dinner.”

Something like a sob left their throat, which pulled another smile out of him. He’s so  _ cute  _ like this, like a little doll he could tear up and sew back together. The fact that he looked just like him was just a bonus. 

_ “Laaast _ question,” he sang, holding the knife against his throat. He felt their adam’s apple bob against the blade, and he leaned in, bumped his nose against his in an almost nuzzle. “One more point and you lose.”

They even  _ smelled  _ like him—

“How’d you get that scar on your tummy?” 

It was a clean cut, almost surgical. Stitched together neatly, uniformly. Identical to the one on his own stomach. 

But where they had gotten theirs— tied down, he said, bright lights, too much pain and someone hovering over him, breaking him open to scramble around his insides and draw out a fire that refused to die down— he had gotten his after a nasty accident riding his bike as a kid. 

Which meant…

“Wrong, again.”

He pressed the knife deep, slid it across their skin.

“I win.”


End file.
